


tried to fight our energy

by Anonymous



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Age Difference, M/M, kind of a bummer but with porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-05
Updated: 2018-10-05
Packaged: 2019-07-25 00:43:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16186541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Peter wrinkles his nose. "Everyone else calls you Tony.""Really?" Tony asks, amused. "You call me Mr. Stark because no one else says it?""Doesn't it sound better when it's from me, though?" He grins sunnily at Tony, like a flash of dimple and those pearly whites can get him to crack. Technically, he isn't wrong about that."It'll do," Tony allows, and Peter laughs, leans against Tony's shoulder.





	tried to fight our energy

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Ariana Grande's "every time." For good reason, I think.
> 
> Peter's of age, probably. Tony's too old for him, definitely. (If it matters that much, Peter's 17-19 through the course of the fic, Tony's 40-ish.) Are either of them in character? Who's to say! Also, if there are glaring canonical errors it's because I've watched like, six of the MCU movies.
> 
> If you would like in-depth/spoilery warnings before you read, please send an ask (anon or otherwise) to the [Tumblr](https://ttfoefic.tumblr.com/), and I'll get back to you as soon as I can.
> 
> This glosses over Civil War pretty heavily. Two dudes getting in a fight over bureaucracy bores me. Let's just pretend Tony and Steve disagreed about the terms of the Sokovia Accords and then had a long, mature conversation about it rather than going nuclear. Everyone's still friends, Josh Brolin is just Cable, and bad writing only happens here. In this author's timeline, Peter's an Avenger and doesn't get punched by Steve Rogers. They still talk about how they're both from New York in their first conversation, though.
> 
> My plan for this was "just porn," but it got very wild very quickly. Also mercilessly unbetaed. That's just how it is.

Tony wakes with a start, overheating under the covers. His brain's practically blinking caution lights, reminding him of the correlation between a light sweat and white-eyed nightmares. He has a lot of those.

It's different today. He doesn't think he was dreaming, and if he was, he can't remember it. It's warm for a different reason, and it takes him until turning his head into a mess of whatever sharp-scented shampoo young adults are obsessed with now (though Tony did stock his bathroom with it, so natch) to remember.

Oh. Right.

Peter's still fast asleep, the blankets pulled up to his chin, body curled with his knees bent. They're spooning in the loosest of terms, Tony with his side against Peter's back, hand resting on his own stomach like he was unsure how Peter would react to putting an arm around him. He was thinking about the spider senses, or whatever.

A part of him says, rather snidely, _if you don't put your hands on him then it's not like_ that, _is it?_

He hasn't been listening to that voice very much lately.

 

 

 

In a startling convergence of events, Peter'd shown up when everyone else was back in town, ostensibly sharing their sitreps but really just shooting the shit. The storm lands in the late afternoon, slamming down on the compound, and FRIDAY gently reminds everyone to stay indoors.

"Yeah, Happy's not driving you back in this," Tony says, and before Peter can open his mouth he continues, "and Spider-Man can't help grandmas cross the street as well as he usually does if the kid underneath the spandex has the flu."

"It isn't that bad outside," Peter says, rather feebly, but he calls May to tell her he'll stay overnight. The weather report says the rain won't lift until early morning, but it's Friday night and Peter doesn't have anywhere to be.

He _is_ doing his homework dutifully, has the contents of his backpack strewn over a table, pencil eraser digging into his temple. He's frowning at his textbook—and when did students have to carry around their textbooks?—like showing a little grief will make the answers come out. There's a little furrow between his eyebrows, and Tony stamps down on the urge to push his finger into it.

Peter is too polite to ask for anything, even when dinnertime rolls around and food hasn't become the topic of conversation. Tony can hear his stomach rumbling; he has half a mind to wait him out, see how long Peter can last. But then he thinks Steve would scold him, and even Nat might give him a look, so. He hefts himself out of his seat.

The rest of the team hasn't shown signs of surfacing from wherever they are in the compound. Tony figures it'd be better to keep it simple, pulls some leftovers from the fridge and throws it all in the microwave. Granted, said leftovers were from a meal made by a Michelin star chef, but. Tony pushes a little more steaming-hot suqaar onto Peter's plate, can't help the twitch of his mouth when Peter makes happy little sounds as he digs in.

"Does it get quiet here?" Peter asks, shoving injera into his mouth. "I mean, I know there are people here today, but. It seems like it's not a usual thing."

Tony shrugs. "They show up when they show up. Rhodey's always around. I don't mind the quiet, anyway."

"Yeah, but," Peter swallows. "Don't you get lonely?"

"Like I said, Rhodey. Pepper drops by once in a while to hand me another pile of papers to sign. And FRIDAY's company, technically."

Peter gives him an unimpressed look. "I'm just saying that Rhodey seems a little busy given that I've seen him once since I started coming here. And he was leaving. No offense to FRIDAY, but AI isn't a person. I might be the only person you talk to regularly."

"I talk to lots of people regularly," Tony retorts. The fact that he can think of four people off the top of his head—and one of them is in front of him—is probably not doing him any favors.

"Well, anyway," Peter says, with some finality as he wipes his hands on a napkin and reaches for his glass, "thanks for letting me keep you safe from cabin fever."

"Do they teach you respect in school nowadays, or is that something you learn the hard way?" Tony laments. When Peter laughs in response—eyes crinkling, dimpled cheeks going rosy—Tony can't quite make himself look away.

Peter finishes his work after dinner, puts on some TV show to pass the time. Tony moves in and out of the living quarters, feels kind of bad that he doesn't really have anything to entertain him with. He'd invite Peter into the lab, but Stark tech doesn't make itself, and it's all rather hush-hush right now. Personally, he's okay with letting Peter see it all, but his lawyers (and Pepper) would probably have different ideas.

"I think I'm about ready to knock out for the night," Peter says, when Tony's wandered back in for the twelfth time. The rain's still coming down hard, sheets of water racing down the windows. He looks over the back of the couch. "Oh, um. Where should I sleep?"

"Haven't built your room out yet," Tony says, digging through the kitchen drawer. He swears he left a chip here during his last two-day engineering bender, and he has a feeling it's exactly what he needs for his current tinkering. "Turns out we need government clearance for a daycare center."

Peter snorts. "Very funny, Mr. Stark." His ears are a little pink, which Tony very clearly does not notice.

"I try. You can have my room," Tony decides. "I'll take the couch."

Peter immediately sits up straight. "Oh—no, Mr. Stark, that's. I don't wanna bother you. I can for sure take the couch, it's no problem—"

Tony waves his hand dismissively. "It's nothing. Someone's gonna yell at me if they found out I didn't let you sleep in a bed."

"Only if you're really sure," Peter says. Then, tentatively, "Or—I mean, we could probably share. The bed, I mean."

Tony raises his eyebrows.

"No, um, you're right," Peter mumbles. "Let's not do that."

Tony points him in the right direction and he disappears down the hallway, possibly to lick his wounds but more likely to shower, while Tony finds a blanket from one of the far-too-many closets. It's easy to settle in on the couch—it's not like it's the first time he's done it—propped up on a stack of pillows with the TV quietly playing a late night talk show, his tablet tucked between his forearm and stomach.

He pulls up the hologram, taps it to separate its layers; Peter's web shooters are pretty efficient as it is, but the web itself is finite, loaded into cartridges that have to be exchanged when depleted. Updating the energy source to something arc-adjacent might allow for more room in the mechanism, which means bigger cartridges, which means Peter won't fall short of webbing some pretty criminal's knife hand or something. And he might as well flash the new shooting protocol while he's at it.

He's been making good progress on the project, between all the other projects. It _has_ taken a bit of a priority, but Tony's semi-logical thought process is that Spider-Man's well-being is probably more important than some minor firmware update for whatever piece of tech. He simply can't have that hypothetical one inch of web on his conscience.

(Really, the hindbrain part of Tony's genius mind is rubbing its hands gleefully, thinking of the bright look in Peter's eyes when Tony loftily presents him with the updated web shooters. The way he'd put them on right away, practically bouncing as Tony ushers him over to the shooting range. His excited _woah!_ as the new protocol fires. His breathless, rushed _thank you_ s and _I love it Mr. Stark_ s and _how can I show you my gratitude_ s.

That last one—the rest of Tony's brain is very interested in it, too.)

"I'm gonna go to bed, Mr. Stark," Peter says, and Tony nearly jumps out of his skin. It's been a while since he's had to deal with Vision sauntering through walls to say hello.

Peter's peeking around the corner from the hallway. He's freshly showered, scrubbed pink and hair still a little wet as it curls loosely around his ears. He's wearing one of Tony's graphic tees, a pair of sweatshorts. The kid took the opportunity to raid his wardrobe, apparently. He probably shouldn't be as pleased with that as he is.

Tony waves at him lazily. "I'll see you in the morning, Spiderboy."

"Man," Peter corrects automatically, grinning. _How very meaningful_ , Tony thinks, rather grimly. "Bright and early. Goodnight."

 

 

 

The clock on the far nightstand blinks 4:17 into the darkness. Peter should be in his own room. On the other side of the compound, maybe. Possibly on the other side of the country, where Tony can't get to him without air clearance. Tony thinks all this like he hasn't spent the last couple of months moping while Peter's been in Massachusetts.

Tony pokes Peter in the back, then a little harder. Tony sighs when there's no sign of consciousness, turns onto his side until he's pressed all along Peter's body. Curls one arm over him, fingertips dancing along the muscles of his stomach. He's annoyingly fit. He kisses the back of Peter's neck, just because he can.

Peter mumbles, tucks his face into the pillow. When Tony keeps poking him, Peter grunts out something in an approximation of "I'm awake." Tony gently pinches the skin on his ribs to feel him twitch, then rests his hand in the center of his chest.

"Go sleep in your own bed, Mr. Parker," Tony murmurs.

Peter rolls over, body curving into his. He tucks his head under Tony's chin, soft hair brushing against skin. Tony's still stunned by the way that Peter makes room for himself so easily. "It's too early, Mr. Stark," he says, his voice rough with sleep and barely louder than a mumble. "Can't you kick me out after breakfast?"

"You sneaking out of my room will be _very_ fun to explain to the rest of the crew," Tony says, even as he rubs his hand up and down Peter's back.

"I've only been back for, like, six hours," Peter says, scrubbing at his eyes. "Be nice for once, Mr. Stark."

"You'd think you'd start calling me Tony after, you know, _this_ ," Tony says, index finger lifting away from the scorching heat of Peter's side, turning in a circle as if to capture the moment: Peter, sleep-warm in his bed, shirtless, one shin tucked between Tony's own. "The whole 'sleeping with your father figure' situation. That thing."

Peter snorts and pulls back to grin sleepily at him, and Tony knows he's going to say it. Unfortunately, terribly, Peter knows exactly what strings to pull, what makes Tony clench his jaw. He's smart, brilliant, but Tony doesn't think it comes from that. He recognizes that part of him, the one that takes a step into the clearly haunted building while the audience fills with dread. The need for a thrill, adrenaline in the veins. Tony sees it in Peter because, as everyone around him tells him all the time, his life revolves around it.

And here, in his very comfortable bed, he knows he probably shouldn't feel that particular sense of excitement from knowing what Peter's going to say. He still wants to hear it.

"Make me then," Peter says, eyes full of challenge.

Tony wants to make Peter do so much.

 

 

 

It wasn't like Tony was waiting for Peter or anything. Just—things came up. The Avengers have worlds to save, and all that. And anyway, it's not like he's _trying_ to get with him. Tony notices him in the way you notice anyone you don't have a chance with: vaguely, casually. Nothing to it at all.

Really, he thinks it's funny, in a despondent sort of way. The second time he's ever chased after someone like some love-sick puppy and it's the exact person he absolutely shouldn't be looking at.

Peter's birthday comes and goes. Tony gets him a cake and a couple of the Avengers are in town long enough to celebrate with him, Thor happily slamming a tankard in front of him with a long speech about "becoming a Midgardian man." Nat got him a butterfly knife. Rhodey—who is a little confused as to why Peter is there in the first place—gives him a firm pat on the shoulder. Steve hands over a nice pen.

"They used this in space," Steve says, proudly. Peter grins at him and tucks it into his flannel's chest pocket, next to the knife.

Tony didn't really get him anything for his birthday. A suit upgrade, mostly. Figuring out how to get titanium thin enough for textiles took a couple of all-nighters, but it's doable at a small scale (take _that_ , military industrial complex), like for reinforcing one Spiderling's footie pajamas. Plus some new clothes, but that's just so he doesn't have to shuttle his stuff between the Brooklyn apartment and the compound. His room was finished a week ago and Tony only sped up the construction a little bit. Nothing fancy, and none of it really counts as a birthday present, anyway.

Peter loves it, stuttering while he stares into his room, square footage twice that of the one he has in Brooklyn. A freshly built computer gleaming on the desk (painted red and blue because Tony's admittedly a cheeseball), some science-themed baubles just because Tony's interior designer thought it'd be nice when he absently mentioned it was for a teenager. Tony thinks it's probably impossible for Peter to show any sort of distaste regarding the things he's given. _Especially_ when it's from Tony. It's pathological, almost.

For what it's worth, Peter doesn't spend more or less time at the compound now that he's reached this next level of Avenger-hood. He drops by when he's not in class or writing his college entrance essays or whatever it is that should put him firmly in _don't even think about it_ territory.

Tony knows he shouldn't. But "knowing he shouldn't" and "actually not" is the Venn diagram of Tony's life that has remained two distinct, separate circles.

He thinks about Peter a lot.

It really doesn't help that Peter's apparently decided to double his flirting efforts. Even if said flirting means dropping something and bending over in a way he thinks is lascivious and enticing but just makes it look like broke both his hips. Tony's still looking, so he can't say it doesn't work.

Tony flirts back. Of course he does—it's not like his judgment works the rest of the time, and sly innuendos and winking remarks are the bread and butter of his conversations. He can't resist an opportunity to make Peter blush. And Peter goes pink every time, eyes bright and shining, gives back as good as he gets. And isn't _that_ a funny way to put it?

But even without the flirting, the sidelong glances, the way that Peter's cheeks turn pink at a moment's notice... the truth is that Tony thinks he's cute. Attractive. Absolutely someone he would find at a hotel bar and make conversation with just long enough to figure out if they'd go back to his room with him. It's not like Tony has any qualms about fucking younger people. It's just that this is Peter—"friendly neighborhood" Peter, "applied to MIT" Peter, "Tony's protege and not in the ironic sense" Peter—so he should keep his hands off of him.

"Should" doesn't mean "wants to."

Because Tony is, if nothing else, a complete and utter masochist, he ducks into Peter's space whenever he possibly can. Nudging past him when Peter's getting a glass of water from the fridge, holding onto his arms to show him how to use the suit's new feature. Or when Peter's in the workshop, bent over some new schematic he's been getting help on and fidgeting with the layers. Tony's an inch from hooking his chin over Peter's shoulder, asking him what he's working on, breathes in through his nose because—well, he's already here, and he might as well be gross about it. Peter nearly launches himself off his seat, his knees slamming into the bottom of the table.

Tony slinks away, pleased.

He thinks he'd be happy enough for the rest of his (likely short, considering all the stress and not-so-healthy twenties and thirties) life, just making Peter turn a furious shade of red. Doesn't even have to touch him in reality, can just live comfortably in his fantasies and with his right hand until he meets his maker. But, of course, it wouldn't be good enough for Peter.

"Can we stop dancing around it?" Peter asks, and Tony almost wants to pretend he doesn't know what he means. He has half a mind to just pack up his stuff and leave. Go on vacation, or something. Maybe dig a hole and bury himself in it.

It's been a terrible, long day. Tony's project nearly blew up in his face and he got in a mild but unsettling argument with some asshole who doesn't seem to think OSHA is a thing and FRIDAY locked him out of his own lab for his "safety" after another thirty-six hour insomnia stint and Peter hasn't been around all week, too busy scrambling around his four tests and two quizzes and even more tests, this time to beef up his college applications. Tony's bone-tired. He missed Peter, missed turning around and having him there, missed the way he tries to have conversations with FRIDAY, missed him ribbing Tony about being an old shut-in but sticking around anyway. In sum, not great signs.

"Just—tell me if I'm wrong about this. About us," Peter says, and there's no way to play dumb with that. He's standing halfway across the room. Tony's hands twitch.

"It's not a good idea," Tony says finally, tired enough to answer him straight. He doesn't need to list the reasons why. They'd be here all day.

"So it's not a good idea, but you've just been flirting with me this whole time for, what, fun?" Tony is, perhaps for the first time in his life, speechless. Peter takes a step closer, and Tony resolutely does not shift in his seat. He insists, "I'm not _wrong_ , am I? Do you like me?"

How very high school. Tony doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. "How I feel isn't exactly the topic of this conversation."

"It's part of the overall conversation," Peter replies, crossing his arms. He looks small, vulnerable, too open with everything he feels. Tony really, really shouldn't be doing this. "If you do, and if I was older—"

Tony winces. "Don't say that."

"But if I was," Peter continues. "You'd be okay with it. This. Right?"

"You really can't think like that," Tony says, and there he is, dodging the line of questioning again. The fact of the matter is that Tony's never stooped this far with anyone else, age-wise. At the very least they've all been legal to drink. Tony doesn't know if that should really be a point of pride here. "It is what it is. Neither of us can change the situation at hand."

"Why not?" Peter asks. Tony can't look away from the set of his jaw, the resolute look in his eyes. "If we want each other, why can't we just try?"

"It's not—you know it isn't as easy as that," Tony says, sighing. "Peter, I've known you since you were fifteen. Do you really think that doesn't look bad? The best case scenario here is that I've been grooming you for three years."

Peter swallows. "But it's not—it isn't like that. I know that."

"The optics are bad regardless of how you feel about it," Tony says. "And honestly, I'm not biased enough to say I disagree. Listen, my life's been one FUBAR after another and I've been fine in the end. If it comes out I started fucking a teenager the tabloids would get excited for two weeks and move on. This is about _you_. Do you really want a bad idea you'll probably regret a year or two down the road biting you in the ass?"

"I'm not a teenager," Peter argues, and it'd be funny in any other conversation to note how quickly Peter jumps on that and nothing else. "I'm eighteen. I've _been_ eighteen for a while. I'm an adult everywhere but in your head, apparently."

Tony thinks he's turning gray from the sheer stress. He doesn't even know where to start with that: that Peter's been eighteen all of three months, that eighteen is still a teenager, that being eighteen is nothing when the other guy's in his forties.

"If you're concerned," Peter continues, "no one has to know. About us, I mean. I don't—you don't need to keep me on your arm. I don't want that."

"It's not about being seen in public with you. You shouldn't be anyone's dirty secret," Tony says, quiet. "Let alone mine. You deserve a lot better than that."

"Then don't let me be one," Peter says, and he tilts his chin defiantly. "I'm not going to regret this, if you give it a chance. So do it right."

Tony looks at him, this kid whom he strode into the life of on nothing more than a whim and some grainy YouTube videos. But Peter was the one who made a space for himself in Tony's life out of sheer stubbornness, settling into it like he's there to stay for good. Like maybe if he just dug his claws in deep enough, if he wanted it bad enough, it'd all be okay.

Tony thinks that not getting what he wants, just for once in his life, would be a good lesson. Teach him about humility, a sense of self-preservation, whatever it was that Howard couldn't bestow upon him.

The problem is that Tony has never been good at denying himself anything. And a part of him thinks, _why start now?_

"Okay," Tony says, finally, and he doesn't know why he says it. The relief that sweeps through Peter almost takes his legs out from underneath him, his arms dropping to hang loosely at his sides, letting out a deep breath he must've been holding. _Maybe that makes it alright_ , Tony thinks, desperate. He holds his arm out. "Come here."

Peter almost throws himself against Tony, plastering himself against his side. He's so warm it's almost unbearable, but Tony tucks the end of the throw blanket around him, lets him lean his head against Tony's shoulder.

"You know neither of us can talk about this," Tony warns. "We can't be seen in public. And we shouldn't spend too much time alone here in the compound. People will get the right idea."

Peter hums in agreement. He's already holding the hand that Tony's got draped over his shoulder, woven their fingers together. Watches while Tony shifts things around on his tablet, asks him questions and makes suggestions on improvements. Like they've been doing this all along.

Tony has more to say, but. He can enjoy this. For now, he can enjoy what they've made.

 

 

 

"Do you really not like that?" Peter asks. He pulls Tony closer, asks without words to be pressed underneath the weight of Tony's body. Peter likes that a lot, and Tony's always willing to oblige. "When I call you Mr. Stark?"

"It's not that I don't like it. I do have a name," Tony says, "and you could use it if you wanted to."

"Tony," Peter says, and he wrinkles his nose.

"Don't wear it out," Tony says, dry, even while he's leaning down to kiss Peter in the center of his chest.

"I've always called you Mr. Stark," Peter says. "And you never call me Peter. Seems weird to change that now. Anyway, I think you secretly like it when I call you that."

"You think it's a lot more enticing than I think it is," Tony says, sliding Peter's boxer briefs down his legs. He'll never really get over this part, he's pretty sure. Peter's body laid out in his bed, watery moonlight spilling over him, like some kind of mildly erotic Renaissance era painting squirreled away in a billionaire's attic. Which technically isn't wrong. Just not in the attic. "You watched too much bad porn."

"Mr. _Stark_ ," Peter says, breathy and over-the-top, and he laughs when Tony pinches him on the thigh.

"Settle," Tony says.

"How else am I supposed to get you to do anything?" Peter asks.

"You could try being nice."

"I'm always nice," Peter says, which—admittedly—is true. "And anyways, you definitely like it when I'm a handful."

"You underestimate yourself," Tony says, though he doesn't disagree. It'd be bad to let that information get to Peter's head, though. He bites gently into the skin under his mouth just to hear the sound Peter makes. "If you really think you're _just_ a handful, we should have a talk."

"Two handfuls," Peter suggests.

"At least," Tony replies, and he smiles when Peter laughs, bright and clear.

 

 

 

Peter stares at the notepad, tasteful Stark Industries logo printed in a near-invisible gray ink in the bottom corner. "Um, this is very blank."

"Right," Tony says. "It's so you can write down what you are and aren't into. I wasn't gonna give you a checklist."

Peter pushes the notepad across the table. "Can't we just say that I'm okay with whatever you're okay with and be done with it?"

"Uh, slow down there, Speed Racer," Tony says, holding his hand out. "Absolutely not. You wanna give _me_ free rein on this?"

Tony motions to himself. Honestly, he's not quite sure what it's supposed to convey. Probably just a general lack of substance or moral aptitude or whatever. The kid (gotta stop calling him that) can fill in the blanks.

Peter shrugs. "You know what you're doing."

"Vaguely, and for brief moments of time," Tony replies. He sighs, runs one hand through his hair. "Okay. Listen, I get this is kind of uncomfortable and annoying to do, but. It's important, okay? So humor me."

Peter raises his eyebrows, but pulls the notepad closer to him, clicks the pen. "What are things that people usually aren't okay with?"

Tony shrugs. "I'm not interfering in the process."

Peter huffs, writes down _YES_ , underlines it. Underneath, jots _handjobs, blowjobs, buttjobs_.

"Funny," Tony deadpans.

Peter calmly ignores him. _Bondage (lite)_. _Spanking?_ _Very likely I enjoy being dominated will have to test_.

The list kind of goes from there.

It takes about ten minutes of pondering and writing, but Peter finally hands over a nearly-full sheet. It is—rather expansive.

"I made a _no_ list too," Peter defends, when he sees the way Tony appraises the sheet. That one is very short, tucked into the corner mostly on second thought.

"It's fine," Tony says, folding the sheet and tucking it into the chest pocket of his blazer. "Very helpful. Thanks."

"So when do we get to, you know." Peter clears his throat. He's rather pink. "Start working through some of that?"

"I was hoping you could wait until after I take you out for dinner," Tony replies, amused.

"Sure, fine," Peter says, pushing back his chair. "So—dinner now?"

Tony doesn't know who he's kidding. Peter's practically buzzing under his skin and it's not like he's in a calmer position. But he _does_ have a sense of propriety. It's like paying indulgences. If you do one little bad thing you can do something nice to fix it. He's not really sure how Catholicism works, but taking your just-barely-not underage protege to dinner probably balances out having sex with him.

"Yeah," Tony says, standing. "Let's go."

 

 

 

Peter kisses him slow and lazy. His hand curls around Tony's ear, thumb stroking against his temple, and Tony holds him by his wrist, feels the pulse steady under his palm.

"How do you want it?" Tony asks when they break apart, and it feels too loud in the darkness.

Peter turns over without a word, grabbing the lube bottle from the nightstand and handing it off before he braces himself on his forearms and knees. Honestly, Tony loves fucking him like this, draped over his body with one hand curled tight around his hip or an arm crossed over his chest. It'd been unpleasant the first few times, not physically but mentally, when it felt disconnected and too much like using someone's body. Peter's body. The tiny sounds that Peter always made when they fucked sounded too much like hurt, and Tony couldn't stand it, not when every last hint of affection he feels is already so jumbled up with the guilt.

(Tony had told all of this to Peter once, because damn it, he was going to be _good_ and open about his thoughts and feelings and learn how to communicate instead of just bottling it up or running off and doing what he wants and ending up hurting a lot of people with his stupidity and thoughtlessness and general Tony vibes.

"That's nice," Peter said absently, opening the laptop—massively overspec'd, what kind of college student needs hologram projection on a laptop—Tony had built for him so he could have something to bring to college. "Anyway, you should bend me over a counter or something."

And that had been that. Flippant, maybe, but Tony had felt so relieved. That maybe one part of the culpability could be absolved. A small part, but still.)

Tony kisses the space between his shoulder blades, reaches down to rub a slick finger over Peter's hole. Peter pushes back against him, grumbling for Tony to get with it, and Tony grins against the skin under his mouth.

Peter shudders when Tony presses a finger inside, easy enough that he adds a second right after. He knows Peter's body by now, every twitch and squirm and exhale. Knows exactly just how far to push before it's too much.

Three fingers deep and Peter's rocking back into it, head hanging between his shoulders and breathing hard with every thrust. Tony slides his hand up Peter's spine, watches him arch under his touch. He curls his fingers around the back of Peter's neck and it almost feels strange to know how strong Peter is while his thumb hovers over his pulse. Or that Peter lets Tony see him like this, body shaking like he can't get enough. It's still a wonder.

"Not to be impatient or anything," Peter says, craning his head over his shoulder to give Tony a particularly unimpressed look, "but maybe you can start fucking me before the sun comes up?"

Tony laughs but he's moving, pulls his hands away just long enough to open the lube and slick up his cock. He chucks the bottle aside, puts his palm back on Peter's neck, doesn't miss the way that Peter pushes back into his hold.

"Are you gonna ask nicely?" Tony teases, pressing his cock against Peter's hole. "Maybe you can put a nice 'Tony' right on the end for me."

"You get off on being withholding, don't you," Peter says, muffled from pressing his face into the pillow. "It's terrible that you're only telling me about it n—"

Tony presses _in_ , and the rest of Peter's sentence is lost in a very interesting squeak.

"Sorry, I didn't catch that."

"I cannot _believe_ people let you be the face of the Avengers," Peter says, breathless.

Tony laughs, kisses Peter's shoulder before he straightens up. Wraps his hand around Peter's waist to hold him steady as he pulls out and fucks in slow.

Peter's never been noisy in bed, tiny sounds from the back of his throat and groans that he bites off before they can make it out of his mouth. Tony's probably a little biased, but he's got a soft spot for the way that Peter tries to be as quiet as he can, hands gripping the sheets so tight his knuckles go pale, face pressed hard into the pillow.

"You can go harder," Peter says. Then, dramatically, "If you would please, Tony."

Tony snaps his hips forward and Peter _jolts_ , body arching as he takes every inch, Tony's cock buried inside him.

"Shit," Peter hisses, panting into the sheets.

"You asked," Tony replies, lofty. Peter exhales like a laugh, and he braces one hand against the headboard, pushes back to meet Tony's movements.

Tony bites down on the meat of Peter's shoulder, kisses the mark he leaves behind before nudging behind Peter's ear. Peter's breathing hard underneath him, the sound of their bodies meeting too loud in the quiet darkness of the room. It's probably too rough too soon, Tony's hand curled gently around Peter's throat, shoving Peter down into the mattress with the weight of his body.

"Tony," Peter says, voice barely louder than a whisper. "Tony—"

"Say it again," Tony says, and maybe it's not so playful anymore, this hint of something raw and ugly he isn't proud of pulling right through his words.

"Tony," Peter gasps, thready and urgent and too much.

Tony knows that one's real.

 

 

 

Tony thinks his first time wasn't anything special. Unsurprisingly, he's had a very casual approach to sex; he likes making his partners happy, and it can certainly be very intense, but the act doesn't mean more than what it is. Two (or more) people having fun and getting off together. It can be very simple.

Tony very badly wants to make Peter's first time special.

Backing up for a second. It's not like Tony got permission to stick his hand down Peter's pants and his first reaction was to pull his dick out and go to town. Peter's inexperienced, but he isn't _chaste_ , which just means that if they're alone in a room for longer than ten minutes Peter gets this look in his eyes that says someone's pants will exit the premises very, very soon.

Which is how it happens the first time—not especially long after they started this thing—with Tony sitting on the couch and Peter kneeling between the spread of his legs, flush high on his cheeks as he jerks Tony off slowly.

"I wanna blow you," Peter says, very serious for a person who's at eye level with someone else's cock for the first time in his life, and Tony would probably say yes if Peter said he wanted to draw and quarter him.

The thing about Peter is that he tackles everything head on. He doesn't back out of fights. It's one of the things that Tony finds unsettlingly, unabashedly attractive about him. And it really shouldn't surprise him that Peter takes pleasure in it, doing more than he should be able to, getting rewarded for going above and beyond.

Which is to say: the tentative, experimental way that Peter flicks his tongue against Tony's cock isn't a turn on, but the wet-eyed glint in Peter's eyes as he gags on it, wiping impatiently at the spit dribbling down his chin as he takes a deep breath to swallow down more _is_.

Tony's life would be easier if his sex drive had a conscience.

Contrary to popular belief, Tony's type is not virginal. It's more like younger people are attracted to him because no one his age should or would be. Which. That's a whole other can of worms that Tony physically cannot psychoanalyze at this point in his life, because that just makes him think about— _worry_ about—Peter. Tony will literally crawl back into the cave he invented his way out of just so he doesn't need to confront it.

He just needs to not be coming in Peter's mouth first. He'll think about all that later.

That being said. First time. Special.

He gets Peter in a bed, because that seems important. Doesn't throw rose petals around or anything, though he wonders if maybe he should've lit a candle. He doesn't know how to make this room, too sleek with its floor-to-ceiling windows and polished concrete floors and tasteful lack of decor, feel more relaxing. Comforting.

It's too late at this point, with Peter kneeling in his lap, legs spread wide over his own. Peter's mouth is already tinged pink with beard burn, and his eyes are so big. He's got both hands on Tony's shoulders, breathing hard like he can't help himself.

"Good?" Tony asks, and Peter nods emphatically. "Good."

Tony helps him out of t-shirt, carefully sets it next to them on the bed. Peter's got a pretty body, slim but corded with lean muscle. He's wiry, is one way to put it—won't break, is another.

Tony kisses him, drags his hands down Peter's stomach until he reaches the waistband of his jeans. Peter lets out a quiet breath when Tony finally skims his fingers along the fly of his jeans, slowly undoes the button. Tony's smiling to himself as Peter hitches into him. He knows he's being a tease, dragging the zipper down at a near-painful pace, listening to Peter make these quiet, vaguely grumpy noises. But one part of him is still so, so unsure: about whether Peter really wants this, whether they can come back from this, whether he's going to fuck it all up, whether—

"Where'd you go?" Peter asks softly, and Tony's eyes snap up to meet his. It takes him a second to realize that his hands have been resting on Peter's thighs, unmoving, for a moment too long.

"Nothing," Tony answers nonsensically. "You doing good?"

Peter nods. "Would be better if we were both naked, probably."

"We can work on that," Tony says, and he pats Peter decisively on the side of his thigh. "Get up, would you? You're kind of heavy. And you can take your pants and underwear off."

"Romantic," Peter deadpans, but he's smiling as he steps onto the floor.

"You can go—" Tony says, before he can think better of it. He's unbuttoning his shirt and watching Peter strip out of his jeans and his brain-to-mouth filter shut down for a second. He snaps his jaw shut.

Peter raises his eyebrows. "Finish your sentence."

"I was just gonna say that you could go slower," Tony replies, and Peter looks at him for a second before he grins.

"I _could_ ", Peter says, stepping back into Tony's space.

He kisses the corner of Tony's mouth, drags his mouth down a little to run his lips along the line of his jaw. His hands reach out, sliding the shirt off of Tony's chest and down his arms, throwing it somewhere in the distance. His undershirt follows soon after—Tony just hears the crumple of fabric. He's trying to chase Peter's mouth as he shifts around maddeningly, but Peter doesn't stop long enough to do more than brush his lips softly against stubbled skin. Tony barely notices when Peter undoes his belt, sliding the leather out of the loops of his pants, the _clunk_ of the buckle hitting the ground.

Finally, Peter takes Tony's hands, sets them along the cut of his hips, just along his waistband. Peter presses their foreheads together, murmurs something like "yes" that Tony can barely hear over the sound of his own pulse in his ears. Tony pushes Peter's boxer briefs down, runs his hands along the soft, bare skin of Peter's thighs. He can almost feel the goosebumps he's leaving behind.

Peter steps out of his underwear brusquely, kneels up onto Tony's lap again. Pushes him down by his shoulders until Tony's lying flat and staring up at him, taking in the flush running down his cheeks to his neck, his spit-slick lips, the look in his eyes. It's almost too much.

Almost.

"Let's take it easy for your first time, okay?" Tony says, brushing his thumb against the curve of Peter's cheek. He really is very pretty.

Peter huffs. "Don't want it easy."

"We don't have to go through everything on your list right now, you know." Tony says. "I think I'll still want to have sex with you later."

"It's not that I'm impatient," Peter mutters. "It's just what I like, okay. I jerked off every night thinking about getting fucked so hard I couldn't sit down properly."

"I—okay, I guess I shouldn't be surprised you'd be really into that," Tony says, trying not to show that Peter's knocked the fucking air out of him. "Considering, you know, the web-slinging and crime-fighting. And the blowjobs. You love a thrill."

Peter grins at that. He leans down for a kiss, and Tony takes the opportunity to sweep his hands down Peter's back, hitch him up a little so they're lined up. Peter rocks into him, his dick pressed against Tony's fly. It's definitely too much friction against bare skin, but Peter doesn't seem to care.

"I'm gonna ruin your pants," Peter says, and he _could_ stand to sound a little more sorry about it, probably. To be honest, Tony is barely paying attention to the state of anything that isn't the exact points where their bodies are touching.

"I have more," Tony says, nipping at Peter's bottom lip, and he breathes out a laugh.

"Maybe we should... move a little?" Peter suggests. "This seems like not the best position to do anything. Not that grinding on your dick isn't great."

"Be my guest," Tony says. He turns them over, gently depositing Peter on the bed.

Peter scoots so he's lying properly, shoving pillows out of his way while he's at it. Tony follows him up, like he can't stand to be away from him for more than a few seconds, carefully bracketing Peter's body with his own.

"So," Tony says.

"So," Peter echoes.

"You should tell me what you want," Tony says.

"Oh." Peter swallows. "Well, I. Do I have to say it?"

"Absolutely," Tony says. Peter turns his head to the side, mumbles. Tony tsks. "If you can't say it, you shouldn't get it."

"You're the worst," Peter huffs, but there's no heat behind it. He takes a deep breath. "Please fuck me?"

Well.

"When you ask so nicely," Tony says, and Peter rolls his eyes at him.

Tony kisses a slow trail down Peter's chest. Scrapes his teeth against Peter's nipple just to hear him yelp. When he finally reaches the line where Peter's waistband had been, skin still marked by the elastic, Tony is interrupted by Peter's giggling.

"Hm?"

"Nothing," Peter says, grinning. "Just, you know. Tony Stark's gonna have my dick in his mouth."

"I might change my mind," Tony replies. He's also hitching Peter's legs onto his shoulders, so.

Tony takes his time. It feels like he _should_. He kisses Peter's stomach, drags his mouth down to the cut of his hip. When he scratches his teeth against the jut of bone, Peter hitches a little, his palm sliding against the sheets.

"Okay?" Tony asks.

Peter nods, and Tony turns his mouth back against hot skin, biting marks down Peter's thigh, then back up to skirt around his dick, start in all over again on the other side.

Tony's having a pretty good time when Peter knocks his knee against Tony's head—gently, at least—and angles down to look at him. "Are you going to do anything?"

"So impatient," Tony says, clucking his tongue. "Maybe I don't know what I'm doing."

"You have four sex tapes on the internet," Peter deadpans. "And they're all highly reviewed by gossip magazines."

"Okay, you got me there." Tony gently presses his thumb just under the head of Peter's dick, grins to himself when Peter squirms. "So, which ones have you watched?"

"There's only one of you with another guy, and it's a threesome," Peter replies. Ah, Tony remembers that. Say what you will about upstate New York, it can be fun if you know what you're doing.

"How many times have you jerked off to it?" Tony asks, amused.

"Just once," Peter says, slowly, like it has to get dragged out of him.

"Really? I'm beginning to think you don't like me that much," Tony says, and Peter snorts.

After a moment, Peter responds, "I mean, it was a threesome. And it was hot. But... is it too embarrassing if I say I didn't like the idea of sharing you?"

"I think it's the right amount of embarrassing," Tony says, after a short pause. He kind of wants to stick his head into a pillow, but that's neither here nor there.

"Oh, good," Peter mumbles.

"It's very flattering," Tony concedes. "It's nice to know that I'm the source of your sexual awakening—"

"Oh my god—"

"—and that all your fantasies have revolved around me, and only me," Tony grins sunnily at Peter, who covers his face with his hands.

"You really are the worst. Can I safeword out?" Peter says, muffled. He lifts his hands so he can look at Tony. "That was a joke. Please don't stop."

Tony chuckles, leans down to kiss the tip of Peter's dick, gets a very choked-off sound for his work. He takes a moment just to... look. Peter's dick is just as pretty as the rest of him, flushed pink and curving towards his stomach, already smearing pre-come against his skin. It's not like Tony hasn't seen his dick plenty, but never really up close like this. Peter hasn't let Tony blow him yet—really, it's more like he's come before Tony's gotten close—though, in his defense, Tony's hand has gotten very familiar with the whole situation.

He gently wraps his lips around Peter's dick, bobs his head without any suction, but even that has Peter squirming helplessly. He runs his hands as soothingly as he can up and down Peter's thighs, though he suspects it's not helping very much, considering the way that Peter makes these tiny sounds in the back of his throat.

He keeps it simple. Not too much suction, because that makes Peter buck helplessly. Really, nothing too fancy, probably a B- if he's gonna rank his blowjobs. He flicks his tongue against the slit, feels the warmth of Peter's pre-come as the taste of it fills his mouth.

"You're pretty quiet up there," Tony comments, pausing for a moment to rest his jaw. It's been a while since he's blown anyone, but he's never gotten complaints, either. "You doing okay, Spiderboy?"

"You've seen the size of the apartment," Peter says, breathless. Now that Tony's looking, he's got a white-knuckled fistful of the sheets clenched in both hands. It's a miracle he hasn't shredded them. "I don't think I could be, um, loud if I tried."

_We'll see about that_ , Tony thinks, and there's his lizard brain taking the wheel again. He hums in response, nearly gets clocked in the head by Peter's knee for his trouble.

"Sorry, sorry," Peter gasps. "Just—okay, a lot, that was a lot."

"Good a lot?"

"Yeah. Yes." Peter swallows. "Still a lot."

Tony gently wraps his lips around Peter's dick again. Peter puts one hand in Tony's hair, rubs the strands between his fingers. He doesn't pull or anything—and anyway Tony wouldn't mind—just holds.

His body's so tense, the muscles of his thighs bunching up under Tony's hands. There's no way he isn't close. He's probably been on the edge since they got in bed. His eyes are squeezed shut when Tony looks up at him again, lips pressed together into a thin line. Tony pulls off his dick for a moment and can't miss the way that Peter exhales like a relief.

"Might be easier if you came now," Tony murmurs, kissing under Peter's belly button. He twitches just at that, and Tony wonders what it's like, to be his age and feel everything so much all the time. He almost feels bad. "It'd feel better. Less urgent."

Peter takes a deep breath. "Okay," he says. "But you—you'll keep going, right?"

Tony nods, chin scratching against the soft skin of Peter's thighs. "I got you."

When Peter comes, it's a full-body shudder, a ripple that starts from a bitten-off moan and rolls through him to the curl of his toes. Tony pulls off just as he feels it happen, gently jerking him through the rest of it. Peter spatters his stomach, whimpers and twitches away from Tony's hand, just this side of too much. Tony's pretty sure he's physically incapable of tearing his eyes away from Peter, the way that his shoulders arch back and his mouth opens in a soundless gasp. Really, if _this_ was engraved on the inside of his eyelids, he thinks he'd be happy for the rest of his life.

Tony figures he should give him a moment to breathe, but Peter reaches for him blindly, pulls him up by the short hairs at the back of his neck. Tony presses his body against Peter's, feels the rise and fall of his chest with his own. He matches their breathing, waiting patiently until he surfaces.

"Hi," Peter says finally, blinking at him.

"Hello," Tony replies. It seems so simple like this.

"Um, that was. A lot more than I expected." He curls his leg around Tony's calf. "I still wanna get fucked though."

"We'll get there," Tony replies, smiling. "You're gonna have to let me go if you want the process to move along."

Peter frowns but eventually concedes, turns to watch as Tony gets off the bed just long enough to take off his pants and underwear. He digs through his nightstand drawer, finds the lube and a strip of condoms mostly by feel.

"It'll be easier on your hands and knees," Tony says, coming back to where Peter's stretched out in the middle of the bed. He's almost taken aback with the way that Peter looks, practically resplendent against the sheets, seeming very much like he's just always been here. "Or if you're on top."

"Oh, um," Peter says. "Can I stay like this? I wanna—it'd be nice to. You know. Look. At you, I mean."

Tony studies him for a moment. "It's up to you," he says.

"Yeah." Peter nods, his mouth set in a determined line. "I want it like this."

Tony grabs one of the pillows, tucks it under Peter's lower back. He looks so exposed like this, body on display for a very obvious purpose, and if Tony could drudge up some—what, penance? guilt?—and really reflect on what they're doing, this would be the time.

Instead, he cracks open the bottle of lube. In the near-silence of the room, interrupted only by Peter's body shifting against the sheets and their breathing, the sound of the cap is almost too loud. Tony thinks his hands are shaking as he squeezes some lube into his palm, rubs it over his fingers.

He puts the bottle to the side, leans down. Peter's still watching him, eyes transfixed on the wet sheen coating Tony's hand while his chest rises and falls in rapid motions. Tony kisses him on the temple.

"Relax," Tony murmurs, brushing his lips against Peter's cheek. "Deep breaths. I got you."

"Okay," Peter whispers. "Okay."

Tony reaches down and presses one lube-slick finger against Peter's hole, just rubbing back and forth for a few long minutes. Peter tenses before he relaxes in inches, breathing evening out slowly. They've done this before, but never as a lead up to something else, and not often enough for Peter to really get used to it. Tony presses his free hand against the mattress and Peter finds him immediately, knotting their fingers together and holding so tight Tony thinks his bones might creak.

The first finger is straightforward enough. Tony goes slow, pressing inside just until the first joint, waits again for Peter's breathing to calm before he works in deeper. It isn't long before Tony's dribbling a little more lube on his hand, pressing two fingers in deep.

"Feels good," Peter says, half under his breath. He's hard again already, bead of pre-come forming at the slit, and Tony quirks a smile at that.

"Just two more, okay?" Tony says, carefully sliding his fingers out before pressing three against Peter's hole. "You're doing great. You're so good."

Peter inhales, a shuddery breath, but he's nodding. Tony pushes three fingers in, a slow and gentle slide, and Peter bites back a moan. His eyes are squeezed shut, mouth open slightly, stomach flexing as Tony fucks him. Tony doesn't even hide the fact that he's staring, just watches Peter's face as he pulls his fingers out all the way just to push back in.

The sound Peter makes at that is definitely one that Tony hasn't heard before, and Peter's eyes pop open like he's surprised by it. Ripped out of him, shameless, and Tony really wants to hear it again.

"Don't be shy," Tony says, gently teasing, and Peter glares at him.

"Easy for you to say," he grumbles. "You're not the one making embarrassing noises."

"It's not embarrassing," Tony corrects, touching his pinky finger against Peter's hole. Not in yet, just something like a reminder of what's next. "I like knowing you enjoy this."

Peter swallows. "Oh. Well, I really do, so."

Tony chuckles, presses his little finger just past Peter's rim, watches his mouth open in a soft exhale.

"You're doing so good," Tony says, and Peter makes a strangled sound. "You like praise a lot, huh?"

Peter nods, looking up at Tony through his eyelashes. "When it's from you, yeah."

That seems like a lot more information than Tony can really process at the moment. He focuses on slowly stretching Peter instead, pressing deeper and deeper until Peter's taking it easily, body rocking into the movement of Tony's hand.

"If you keep fingering me I'm just gonna come, you know," Peter says, cocking his head. "That's not my game plan for the night."

"It's better to be more prepared than less," Tony says, mock wisely, and Peter rolls his eyes.

"I'm good," Peter replies. "Seriously, I doubt your dick is that big."

Tony's laughing even as he blindly finds the strip of condoms in the sheets, tears open a packet and rolls the slick latex onto his cock. He hitches back into Peter's space, kissing the top of his knee just for good measure. Lines himself up, the head of his cock pressing against Peter's hole, and leans forward until he's curved over Peter's body.

"Okay?" Tony asks, and Peter nods. "If it hurts, if you need me to stop—just say so. You don't have to pretend. Just tell me. Alright?"

"Okay," Peter says, and there's a slight smile on his face. Tony'll have to ask him about that later.

"Okay," Tony murmurs. "Good boy."

Tony's thumb strokes absently against Peter's temple as he pushes his cock in as gently as he can. It's a slow, slow stretch. Four fingers is more than enough, but it's different. The headspace and everything. Peter's breathing hard, his eyes downcast to watch, face angled ever so slightly into Tony's palm.

Holding back is agonizing. Tony wants nothing more than to snap his hips forward, to grab Peter by his waist and pull him down onto his cock. He clenches his hand in the sheets instead, only has to wait a few seconds before Peter's hand is back, fingers wrapped around his wrist. Peter makes a vague, almost hurt sound when Tony finally presses an inch past Peter's entrance, and he freezes. He looks up at Peter, eyes dragging over his tense stomach, the set of his jaw.

"Keep going," Peter says, brow furrowed as he looks up at Tony. He's got this serious, focused look in his eyes, so strong it's like a glare, and Tony feels pinned by that gaze. Doesn't know what to do other than listen.

Tony manages another inch before he pauses for a minute, lets Peter breathe, kisses him on the corner of his mouth and feels Peter's hand squeeze around his wrist.

"Is that—um. All of it?" Peter asks.

"Couple inches," Tony says.

"Okay, well, that's just false advertising," Peter says, and if he's able to string this much snark together Tony's clearly not doing his job very well. "It absolutely did not feel this big in my mouth."

Tony smiles at him, his tiny pout even with the glassy look in his eyes and the flush high on his cheeks. He smoothes Peter's hair down. "It'll get easier in a little bit."

Peter nods, serious all of a sudden, and Tony leans down to kiss him slow, careful. Peter tilts his head, kisses like he's hungry for it, an all-consuming surge of want. Tony lets himself get lost in it, the feeling of Peter's lips, his tongue, the taste of him everywhere.

"You can move now," Peter whispers. "I think—I'm okay, you can."

Tony lifts up onto his knees a little, shifting the angle just enough, and the sound that Peter makes as he pushes deeper into him is overwhelming.

"Good?" Tony asks, and Peter nods furiously.

Tony pulls out a little, presses back in, and Peter's shoving his hand against his mouth, eyes squeezed shut as Tony slides inside him.

"More," Peter gasps. "You can—just, please—"

"Not a competition," Tony says. "Slow, remember?"

"You're not gonna hurt me," Peter replies, stubborn. "Come _on_."

Tony nods at him, wraps his hands around Peter's waist and presses his knees into the mattress harder for the leverage. He thrusts in, deeper every time. Even then, Peter's so tight it takes a little while for his hips to finally press against skin, and if Tony wasn't firmly shutting the door on all of it he thinks he might start hyperventilating.

"Like that," Peter breathes, and Tony listens.

Peter's got both legs wrapped around Tony's waist, ankles crossed at the small of his back. His fingers are digging into the center of Tony's shoulders, blunt nails almost certainly leaving bruises in their wake. Peter's pulling him in with his body, every muscle trying to keep Tony close. It's easy to get lost in this: the sounds Peter makes, the tight drag around Tony's cock, the feeling of Peter's body heaving underneath him. Tony leans down to scrape his teeth along Peter's neck, leave a biting, bruising kiss just to the side of his throat. Breathes in the scent of him so that maybe he can remember it forever.

It takes him a minute to figure out the sound that he's hearing, like it's being filtered in from another room. Quick inhales—Peter's sniffling. Tony pulls up quick, looks down at him. Peter tries to rub his face against the pillow covertly, but Tony knows tears when he sees them.

"Hey," Tony starts, alarmed, but Peter shakes his head.

"It's nothing. Promise," Peter says, and he wipes impatiently at his eyes. His jaw is set when he looks at Tony. "Just a lot. Good a lot. It kind of just... started."

"We should probably stop," Tony offers cautiously. "If it's too much, we should stop."

"Don't even think about it," Peter says. The glaring might work better if his eyes weren't red-rimmed, and Tony kind of wishes that it wasn't in this moment that he thinks Peter's probably one of the top five people he knows.

"Tell me," Tony murmurs, pressing his words against the side of Peter's face. It feels like something Peter can't say, not while they're looking at each other, pressed so close like this.

There's a long pause while Peter breathes. He finally asks, so quiet that Tony couldn't hear it if he wasn't so close, "It's okay to feel so much, right? About someone else?"

Tony obviously isn't as smart as everyone thinks he is, not when he can't even think of the right thing to say after something so vulnerable, so full of this ache he didn't think he could recognize. He closes his eyes for a moment, listens to Peter breathe. When he finally pulls away so he can look at Peter, he can already see the guarded look in his eyes, like he's trying to protect himself. Tony hates that, wishes that he could just take that away for him.

"It's the same for me," Tony says, and it wasn't the truth until he said it. He kisses Peter between his eyebrows, presses their foreheads together. "I feel too much about you, too."

Peter nods, bites his lip as he meets Tony's eyes. Tony wonders, briefly, what he's looking for. If he finds it at all. Peter tugs gently with his leg, like he's reminding Tony of what they're doing, a watery but genuine smile on his lips. Tony laughs softly, kisses Peter again just because he can, because he _should_.

Peter wants him to keep going, so Tony does. Fucks him slow and steady, until the thighs around his waist start squeezing, urging him on. Peter's so close, his body practically shaking. Tony reaches down between them, slides his palm up the length of Peter's dick. When he thumbs the head, Peter shudders, his thighs squeezing tighter around Tony's waist. It takes nothing at all to get Peter to come again, one hand wrapped loosely around his dick, barely any friction.

Tony grits his teeth as Peter tightens around him in waves. He waits Peter out, holding as still as he can until Peter goes boneless against the sheets. He knows Peter's too sensitive and starts to pull out, but he's still got one leg around Tony's waist, holding him there.

"Keep going," Peter says, and Tony shakes his head.

"It'll be too much," he says. "It's fine, I don't have to—"

"Keep going," Peter repeats, firm. He even _looks_ fucked out, eyes half-lidded and red from crying. The mark that Tony left on his throat is bright red against his skin, and he can barely remember leaving it, but it's too obvious. Practically a brand of ownership. Tony tries to ignore the heated want that tugs through him, but it's really all par for the course, isn't it.

Instead of replying, Tony tucks his face into Peter's throat again, kisses the fragile skin under his mouth. Can tell he scrapes his teeth over the raw mark because Peter groans, body arching to press tighter against Tony. When he starts moving, starts losing the ragged edges of the pace he's been trying to keep, he lets himself get pulled under by the feel of Peter desperate around him. Listens to Peter beg and cry and plead, his arms wrapped around Tony's neck. Doesn't even try to stop himself from thinking that this is enough.

 

 

 

"You're not my father figure, by the way," Peter says.

"Excuse me?" Tony asks. He thought Peter had fallen asleep already. He was looking forward to stewing dramatically in his guilt. Maybe standing by his floor-to-ceiling windows and brooding as he looks out over the gray of the compound.

"You said you were my father figure earlier," Peter clarifies, and Tony can barely remember it. Peter's tracing a finger over the fist-sized scar where his arc reactor used to be. He seems almost obsessed with it, the indented and gnarled skin. Tony doesn't want to analyze it that much, knows it has everything to do with the fucked up tangle that's Iron Man and hero worship and why they're both here. "I never thought of you that way."

"Irrespective of how you thought about it, Peter, that's basically what I am to you," Tony says, quiet. (Not basically—is. Age? Check. Teaching life skills? Check. Birds and the bees? Well.) It's the first time he's said it in a way that wasn't poking fun at Peter's rather absurd enjoyment of him. This is flattering, sure, but. Tony is supposed to be smarter than this, isn't he?

Peter shrugs. He doesn't seem to notice the enormity of it hanging over them. "You're just some guy to me," he says, and there's a quirk to the corner of his mouth. "Just you, a couple of war vets, a green Mr. Hyde, an actual god... I mean, I can keep going."

Tony opens his mouth, shuts it.

"What I'm saying is that the whole—you being older. It's not like the rest of our lives are normal either," Peter finishes.

"No," Tony says, after a long pause. He lifts Peter's hand to his mouth, kisses his knuckles. "You're at least a little right."

There's more to say. Like how even in a world where aliens crawl through wormholes and tear New York to pieces their relationship is beyond abnormal. Or how Tony was already on his second quarter-life crisis when Peter was barely even a thought. Or how that panicky sick feeling that Tony used to get when he thought about Peter—the one he liked to think of as his conscience—has gotten quiet lately, and he's almost afraid of that. But especially that Tony doesn't know what he'd do if Peter left, if he lost interest in this, if he realized how stupid it was to be here in the first place. He doesn't know who's holding on tighter.

There's always more to say. Tony doesn't know how to say it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for playing. You can come say hi on [Tumblr](https://ttfoefic.tumblr.com/), if you'd like.


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